Duck, You Sucker! A Fan Novelization
by tamsin.parker.5
Summary: In 1913, during the Revolution, Mexican peasant Juan Miranda's life is turned upside down when he forms a friendship with an Irish terrorist. Both are disillusioned by the revolutions going on, and realize the cost of fighting for a cause.
1. Chapter 1- Juan and the Four Bad Hombres

_A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery; It cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle, so temperate, kind, courteous, restrained and magnanimous. A revolution is an insurrection, an act of violence by which one class overthrows the other. -_ Mao Tse Tung

In these parts, death followed you, no matter where you went. Mind you, in life, death followed you everywhere, but down here, oh, it was more treacherous than usual. Only the lucky few were quick enough to escape. That's what a countless number of unsuspecting ants on a mound learned all too late when they were drowned in a burning wash of Juan Miranda's urine.

Of course, Juan never looked at it from that angle. He was desperate, he needed a spot, this was it. He didn't care what was on the mound. What mattered to him was, it was there.

He buttoned up his pants, when a shot rang out in the distance, or at least he thought it was. It could have been an explosion. It was loud enough. He looked around for a moment, to see where the noise was coming from.

There, off in the distance, a stagecoach was coming down the road. He looked curiously at it, and smirked.

He was a Mexican, an ordinary peasant, who grew up in poverty. He was on the stocky side, bare-footed, and dressed in worn brown clothes. He had no real home, so he figured a stage might be the closest thing he could acquire.

It was mobile, and this one looked like a big brass-bound treasure chest, so it was perfect for him. To someone of royalty it may not look like much, but to him it was a beauty, pulled by six fine chestnut horses. Three men sat at the front of the stagecoach; one driving it, two shotgun guards flanking him on either side.

Juan plodded down the hill to the road, and leaned lazily against a post, waiting for it to reach him. As soon as it was near, he took off his hat and half-heartedly hailed it. The thing drove right past him. He thought he'd lose it entirely, but a broad grin came to his face when the stagecoach halted to the side.

"¡Señor!", he cried, running up after it. "¡Señor! Señor, I must go to San Felipe. My mother is dead."

"Straight down the road, about fifty miles," said the driver, adjusting the saddle on one of the horses, not even looking at him. Juan tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to turn around and face him.

"Please," said Juan desperately, his eyes brimming with tears. The driver was not convinced. "Get outta here", he growled, pushing the sweaty nuisance away from him. Juan staggered back, then continued to walk away sadly.

 _Wait a second,_ thought the driver. _Of course!_

"Hey", said the driver behind him. "Hey, amigo. Come here."

Juan plodded back towards the driver, handing him a small sum of money in his hand. The driver took it, and Juan kissed the man gratefully on either side of his head. The driver gave a confused Juan a turnaround, and gasped in awe.

"Perfect.", he muttered. "You're _perfect_ ".

Juan chuckled. He'd never been complimented before. This meant a lot to him.

"I swear to God, boys, he's just right", rasped the driver to his buddies. "I'm gonna put you on that stage, and watch those faces when they see you come in!", he added as he suddenly grabbed Juan on the arm and lead him to the front of the carriage.

Juan looked warily up behind him. A shotgun guard was boring down on him like a hawk. He was made to lift up his arms, and the driver patted him down, feeling him for any weapons.

Juan yelped suddenly, causing one of the guards to cock his gun. To a casual watcher it might have appeared that Juan was ticklish there. But the driver felt something else. Ripping open Juan's shirt, he felt inside and found a small piece of bread, chuckling triumphantly. Juan laughed nervously with them, until the driver callously tossed the bread onto the ground.

 _"Move"_ , growled the driver, and Juan had no reason to object. He nervously picked up the piece of bread, dusting off the dirt on it and stuffing it back in his shirt.

He opened the stagecoach door, looking curiously around the interior. It was dark, but it was comfortable looking, decorated with wood polish and red velvet. Inside the stagecoach were three gentlemen (one with a luxuriant mustache, one sort of square-jawed and burly, and one clean-shaven one wearing glasses who resembled Manuel Mendoza a bit), a lady, and a preacher with a fuschia cap. The Mendoza-looking one was chewing loudly, and looking at Juan like he was some sort of animal. The second, the one with the mustache, turned around to face him as he glanced meekly around.

The first gentleman, the one with the mustache, saw Juan's bare feet, and following their gaze, Juan hurriedly took out some old leather shoes from his jacket, and slipped into them.

"By God," started the mustached gentleman, "are you-"

"Now, dear", said the lady, gently setting him back down.

Shutting the carriage door, bowing politely to the preacher, Juan quietly and passively made his way through the carriage.

The gentleman with the glasses coldly tossed his hat onto a chair, which Juan absent-mindedly sat down on. Tutting, the preacher ordered Juan to sit "over there", at a place by the door.

"There?" indicated Juan wordlessly.

"There", the preacher nodded.

Straightening out the hat, Juan went over to what he assumed was the door the man was pointing to, when the stagecoach began to move. He opened the door, which led to the lavatory.

"Not that door, the other one", said the third gentleman. "There." He pointed to what looked like a drawer in the middle of the carriage. "Pull".

Juan pulled at what looked like a drawer knob in the very middle of the front of the stagecoach, and a seat folded out.

The bespectacled gentleman chuckled condescendingly. "There. Now you just sit down there and watch like a good little boy."

Feeling a little embarrassed, Juan sat down. He noticed that the others were staring at him, again like he was some sort of animal.

"You see?" sneered the one with the glasses, "He does understand. Who knows? Perhaps he can even talk."

"Now, now, even the peasants- a bit of mustard- thank you- Even the peasants are entitled to their rights.", chimed in the preacher.

 _Finally. A man of God._

"After all, they have won a revolution. Or at least, almost", the preacher added.

 _Or not._

The year was 1913. Mexico was in turmoil, and under the iron grip of General Huerta. Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata had made their mark on the world in leading the people of Mexico in a glorious rebellion, a historic fight for civil rights. That's what it looked like, anyway.

Of course, this was none of Juan's concern. He had no reason to fight for anyone but himself. Joining that bunch of fools would get him killed anyway. His hands were clean. Metaphorically speaking, anyway.

"Animals. That's what they are. Animals.", belched the third gentleman.

 _Well, they should talk,_ he thought. _Some gentleman these were._ They looked to him like a bunch of fucking cows chewing cud, that's what they looked like. But one slip of the tongue and everything could fall to pieces.

Juan could only wait patiently, just bear the shit that comes out these assholes' mouths.

"Let us not forget even animals can be tame at heart.", said one of the gentlemen.

"Personally, I consider them unfortunate brutes", said another.

"Yes, brutes, quite right", agreed the lady.

"Precisely, my dear lady, precisely. I hate saying it, but, um, you should hear them in the confessional", said the preacher.

 _Try hearing yourself in the confessional sometime._

"You would never imagine", continued the preacher. "Did you know that they-"

"I can imagine, Father. I can imagine.", interrupted the lady, "Living in such promiscuity. All in one room, male and female together. Lying in a heap, like rats in a sewer. At night, when the lights are out, all inhibitions disappear. You never know who is next. Mother, sister, daughter… goat…"

Juan cringed. These were the real brutes. They were talking about him like he wasn't even there.

The square-jawed gentleman uttered a comment in an accent that Juan couldn't make out. He was less of a gentleman and more of a yokel. "Every country has its own plague. Just like them niggers we got back home."

"Just like anyone's, you mean", said the gentleman with the handlebar mustache. "Because that's what they are."

"Exactly," said the bespectacled gentleman. "Which is why they're half-wits."

Juan glared. But there wasn't anything he could do right now. Anyway, on top of everything, these bigots were certainly anything but subtle in their conversation.

"Hey, you", said the bespectacled gentleman to Juan. "You know who your father was?"

Juan shook his head innocently.

"You know at least how old you are?"

Juan shrugged.

"You know how many kids you have?"

That one he didn't know the answer to. He never counted them. It would have been impossible for Juan to answer anyway. All he could do was stare at the way the bespectacled man was chewing open mouthed on his food. It was fucking distracting.

"Do you know how many kids your mother had?", pressed the bespectacled man, who was all but some sort of steer to Juan. Ate like a cow, and had no balls. He chuckled. "He doesn't know anything, you see? And it was to benefit scum like this that the Agrarian reform was imposed."

"And that ass, Madero, wanted to give the government and our land to idiots like this."

Well... Madero was kind of a spineless pussy, but he was a _well-intentioned_ spineless pussy. _Waaay_ too trusting of everyone, so Juan would probably have been able to understand why they were against him so much, even if he hadn't bothered to care.

"We are all pawns in the hands of Almighty God", blustered the preacher. "Fortunately, divine providence has disposed of that trash individual Madero."

"My dear Monsignor, let's be realistic", said one of the gentlemen. "What you choose to call providence, I call General Huerta. He puts the peasants in their place."

 _Bullshit! One wouldn't have to know politics to know that Huerta was an asshole._

"Which is the best place for animals, which is what they are", said the so-called man of God.

Juan lost track of the conversation at this point. All he was seeing was food being mashed inside people's mouths, while they talked more condescending bullshit about him.

"Animals", agreed the man with the handlebar mustache.

"I can imagine… I can imagine such promiscuity", the lady continued to complain.

What you, the reader, could imagine was a broken vinyl record. The same bullshit being repeated over and over. Juan seethed with rage. He couldn't hear full conversations, just the same insults again and again. But Juan could take a hit. He just had to be patient.

The stagecoach passed by a group of Mexican peasants lazing by the side of the road.

"Hey, you!" demanded the driver. "Come over here and give us a push! Come on and give us a hand, you lazy bunch of greasers!"

The peasants, a bunch of them children, did nothing but stare.

"You'd think they'd get up off their asses to help us, the bastards, but no."

By the time the stagecoach passed by the kids, they were running along the back of it without the driver suspecting.

Inside the stagecoach, Juan was still suffering in silence, though he knew it wouldn't be for long, now. But just that moment, the stage stopped suddenly. The driver was yanked forward and dragged away screaming by the horses. He heard gunshots outside, and the dying grunts of the shotgun guards. It was his kids! And right on time, too.

They poked their guns inside, two of them pointing them into the windows on either side of Juan's head. Juan shut his eyes tight, bracing himself for the deafening gunshots, of the rifles that would put down these hypocrites.

The boys waited in silence. The gentleman with the mustache reached for his gun, and got a shot to the head.

Juan had nothing to fear at all. He stood up.

"Take him away before he dirties everything", he said to the boys. The guy was a shitstain anyway. Removing the body wouldn't have made that much of a difference, but he wasn't going to take any chances.

"And now, ladies and gentleman", he announced, "You will give everything to my _niños_ and you will give it to them without any trouble."

"We kill them all, okay, papa?" said one excitable little boy, shooting at a window.

"How many times have I told you, Chulo, no shooting unless Papa pulls the trigger," scolded Juan, browbeating little Chulo.

He grabbed the bespectacled _cabron_ and took him outside, striking him on the face.

"You wanted to know my family? That's my sons", said Juan. "Each one of them from a different mother, huh? And now you kneel," he ordered.

It was clear now that Juan was no ordinary peasant. He was a bandit and a highwayman. He wasn't anyone worth more than $2,000 or so. But the power he had now, he felt like a king.

Around the outside of the carriage, more members of Juan's gang, the ones who weren't his family, had gathered around and were stripping it clean.

"Kneel! _KNEEL!_ " Juan ordered to the bespectacled man, forcing him to his knees. "PAPA!", barked Juan.

An old bandit hobbled over.

"This is my father, I think", Juan introduced to his victim.

"Pleased to meet-" started the alleged old Mr. Miranda, reaching out to shake the hand of Juan's victim. Juan slapped away his father's hand. The old man was either senile or too polite for his own good, Juan decided, especially in front of dirty dogs like the bespectacled gentleman.

"Go inside before Chulo kills everyone, huh?" demanded Juan. The old man meekly walked away.

"My mother, she had the blood of the Aztecs, which was before your people." explained Juan, pushing down the bespectacled man, before grabbing him again by the collar. "And now I ask you a question. Can you make a baby?" The man looked confused. _"Can you make a baby?"_ repeated Juan. "That's sad," he said dropping the man again. "But we will fix that." He walked back over to the carriage. _"_ _¡Señora!_ _"_ he roared. The lady was pushed to the door by one of the boys. She took Juan's hand as she stepped out, and he followed her.

He led her to a stone courtyard, leaving her there momentarily to check to see if anyone was inside the house next to it. He beckoned to her, but she refused to move. Such strength she had. Juan could fix that.

He shepherded the black-clad bitch into a barn with a long piece of straw he picked up. She was paralysed, despite herself, as he advanced.

Almost impassively, Juan unbuttoned his fly. The lady stared in morbid fascination.

"That's pretty good, huh?" drawled Juan.

The lady felt nauseous. Feeling helpless, she watched Juan advance towards her.

His body was close to hers now. She watched him, scared of what he would do next. Slowly, he took off her hat, and leaned in close to her. She could feel it now. She could feel it as his body touched hers. She placed a trembling hand on his shoulder. Juan removed the hand, firm but fairly. Their faces were barely an inch apart from each other. She could feel his breath now. It smelled horrible. She gazed into his eyes. Then…

"Oh, Jesus. I feel I am going to faint."

"No, no, no, no…" murmured Juan gently. "If you faint now, you miss the best part."

It wasn't helping his case against her claim of "such promiscuity".

The men inside the carriage were stripped of all their clothes, all their possessions taken. They had no idea what they did to deserve all of this, but the Mirandas knew that not only did these rich bastards have everything to sustain them for at least a week, they subjected Juan to excruciating verbal torture, not thinking of the consequences.

"You'll pay for this, you bastards", drawled one of the gentlemen. "I'm a citizen of the United States of America."

"To me, you're just a naked son of a bitch", said Juan's papa. "Understand, Yankee?"

Inside the barn, Juan was busy stripping the lady of all of her possessions. He chuckled as he took her necklace.

"Thank you."

The Mirandas stood outside, by a hill, armed and proud, while the passengers all sat in a wagon.

"Thank you for everything." With a gunshot, Juan sent the wagon rolling down the hill with the naked pigs and the bigoted womanrolling down a hill, landing in a field of pigs, where they belonged.

This day was only getting better.


	2. Chapter 2- Duck, You Sucker!

Just then, there came a thunderous explosion from one of the hills. Startled, Juan took the telescope from one of his sons, and peered through it. The explosions were getting closer towards them down the road. Taking several new horses from a nearby farm and getting them to pull the stagecoach down the road, leaving the rich naked _javelinas_ behind them, the Mirandas went down to investigate. They reached a rocky pass in the mountains, where the explosions seemed to get closer and closer to them. An explosion went off about fifty feet ahead of them, causing them to have to stop the stagecoach.

Juan's gang leapt off the carriage, including Juan himself who clambered out from inside. They ran for cover by a crevice, and waited for the cause of all this noise to finally appear.

The dust cleared. Down the road came a figure on a motorcycle. He was wearing large goggles, an aviator cap, and a red scarf as a mask for his nose and mouth.

The gang watched the man go by. Then Juan drew his pistol and punctured one of the tires on the man's motorcycle. Everyone laughed as the bike came to a halt.

The mysterious figure sighed heavily. _Really?_ he thought. _Of all the days, of all the god damned fucking days. And it had to be here. God damn it, why here?_

He got off the bike, put a brake down on the back wheel, lifting the bike to replace the tire.

The bandits walked curiously over to him, to get a good enough view to observe him. They stood and watched like a herd of cats.

The man was investigating the damage. He drew another sigh of frustration, then took off his hat, which underneath it was a full head of ash blonde hair. He looked over at the curious bandits through his goggles, and with one sweep lowered them and his mask. A _gringo_. Golden-skinned, with deeply set, soulful looking, beady blue eyes and a nicotine stained mustache that you could shelter under.

He casually sauntered towards the bandits. Oh, these bastards were going to get what they deserved.

He rolled up a cigarette, and spoke to Juan, who was standing there, slightly stunned.

"Have ye a light?" the gringo asked Juan.

 _What did he need a light for?_

He took the bandit's cigar from his hand and kept walking. Then he threw them both into the carriage and took the hand of one of the boys, leading him away from it. He walked back over to Juan, and uttered the very words that Juan would come to know him by, before strolling off past him.

"Duck, ye sucker."

Before anyone had time to react, a fiery explosion came through the roof.

"There is a hole in the roof!" explained one of Juan's sons.

Juan looked back at the strange foreigner. _Jesus, was he fucking crazy? This man who dared to confront Juan Miranda, ah?_ Whoever he was, he was not going to let him get away with it!

"Hey!" barked Juan. Who did this son of a bitch think he was?

The man stopped and turned to look at him. The bandits drew their guns.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you", said the gringo, an Irishman by birth.

"Why?" asked Juan.

The Irishman unbuttoned his long coat to reveal what was inside. Dynamite, all along the inside pockets. Every inch of the inside of that duster was lined with explosives.

"You pull out that trigger and shoot me, I fall," he said, taking from a small pouch a bottle of clear liquid, out of which he pulled a couple of test tubes. "And if I fall," he continued, taking the tubes over to the side of the road, "They'll have to alter the maps." He dropped a small amount of liquid onto the ground, causing a small explosion.

"D'ya see, when I go, half this bloody country goes with me", continued the firecracker, "Includin' yourself".

Juan really should have been scared of him. But all he could see of the man, was his ticket to big money. He could just see the words, "Banco Nacional de Mesa Verde" right above the Irishman's head, in green letters, no less. It was the luck of the Irish, indeed.

It was so simple. He could distract everyone with an explosion in the back, maybe blow up a few guys, while the rest of them go in front while they were sure it was empty and take all the money. This man was perfect. Oh, they would make such a great team together. They would be unstoppable. They would be the greatest criminal duo in all of Mexico!

Juan began to laugh.

"You understand now?", said the Irishman.

" _Si, si, si, si, si_ ", said Juan heartily, "I understand. It's like a miracle of God! You! You are a great magician, ah? I stop your motorcycle and you do the magic with my coach and now we're even."

"Even?"

" _Si!_ " replied Juan, self-assured.

"No, we're not even." drawled the Irishman. "If you fix my motorcycle, we'll be even. I'll be inside." He started up the steps inside the Mirandas' carriage. Juan started after him, but Chulo had something to say to his papa.

"We kill him now, papa?"

"No", whispered Juan, striking the boy's face. "First we fix the motorcycle. Shhh."

Sending the gang over to the motorcycle, Juan saw the Irishman inside, drinking something. More lighter fuel, perhaps?

"It's whiskey."

"Oh!" laughed Juan nervously. "Thank God for that, huh?"

"Where you goin' in this contraption?", inquired the Irishman softly.

Now that Juan saw everything the Irishman could do, the only way from him was glorious Mesa Verde. But he would save that confession for a special moment. Besides, he wanted to find out if the gringo was going in his direction first. "Well, where you going?"

"Shaver Mines."

"Lucanina?" exclaimed Juan. "Yeah, I know that place", he laughed, "I know the man who owns that, too. I know the fat, German son of a bitch, Aschenbach, who wrings our people dry like slaves, even his personal servants. One girl had an ass, her cheeks were so full and hard, they were like drums. When I got her pregnant, what did he do? He fired her—"

"Oh, Jesus! Will you shut up and go fix my motorcycle?!" snapped the Irishman.

Juan knew from earlier not to cross this man's path, and if he did, he would _literally_ be a part of the countryside.

"Okay," said Juan, slowly backing out of the carriage. "O-kay! Anything you say… firecracker."

Outside, the bandits were looting the Irishman's bags. Juan had to go over there and stop them. Jesus. You take your eye off of them for one moment and suddenly everything falls into chaos with them. Who knows what Chulo might have pickpocketed?

"Take your hands off that!" he ordered.

He started to put some of the stuff back into the bags. One particular thing he found was a green banner that read, _IRA_ , in yellow embroidered lettering. Whatever the hell that meant. Whatever. It was Latin to him for all he cared.

Casually tossing the banner aside, he found the Irishman's wallet, and started looking for some identification. Inside was a copy of _United Irishman,_ and beneath the headline, an article of a wanted man. This must have been the firecracker, ah?

Beneath his picture read something about a reward, and a name he couldn't make out. Something beginning with "J". There was definitely a "J" in it.

Juan chuckled. "Well, good for you, firecracker."

"Not even one lousy peso!" exclaimed his second eldest son, Napoleon.

"I don't know why I named you Napoleon when you have no imagination," remarked his father, striking him. Did Juan teach him nothing about banditry? "This is a bank!"

"¡Mesa Verde!" piped in Papa.

"Si, papa. Mesa Verde, Mesa Verde. And if we can get this firecracker to come with us, then we will be rich!"

"Where does he come in?" demanded one of Juan's gang. "The dynamite's right here."

"No, no", Juan had to explain. "You need an expert for a thing like that!"

"You only need matches and balls, Juan," said the upstart, "And I got all those it takes!"

 _Who asked his opinion?_ " _¿Sí?_ "

 _"¡Sí!"_

Oh ho, Juan would sure show him. He handed the guy one of the sticks of dynamite from the Irishman's motorcycle.

"You see that tree over there?" said the gang member.

And that was the last thing he said. As he went up the hill to the tree and lit the dynamite, it exploded instantly, killing him with it.

Inside the carriage, the Irishman smiled as he drifted off to sleep, chuckling.

"Short fuse."

Though he hadn't heard the conversation, he'd have agreed with Juan. You did need an expert for this sort of thing.

All that was left of the foolish demolitionist was his hat, or the rim of it. Juan stared through the middle of it in horror. It was horrible. Stupid idiot had it coming anyway, though.

* * *

Hours later, the Irishman woke up to find Mirandas lazing about inside the carriage everywhere. Behind one resting in a hammock was a shrine of sorts, to the Mesa Verde bank. It even had little candles around it. One child was watching him intently.

The man went outside. He reminisced about his past in Ireland, about the revolution there… and about the life he left behind.

One name echoed in his head. One that once every while kept turning over and over in his mind ever since he came to Mexico.

 _Sean._

He found Juan cooking on a miniature stove. He'd slept for several hours already; it was already getting late.

Juan eagerly offered the Irishman a plate, but the man just walked past, instead focused on something else.

"Where the hell are we?", he asked.

Juan wasn't interested in that question, instead determined to press his own. "What kind of work do you do for the German?"

The gringo didn't answer.

"Listen, I asked you a question. What do you do for the German?", demanded Juan.

"I've been looking for silver."

"Silver?" repeated Juan. What was he thinking? "You know something? I don't understand you. I don't understand how you waste your time or your Holy Water looking for silver. To me, that's a sin," he remarked, pouring some wine.

"You have better ideas?"

 _"Si!_ I think gold is better than silver."

"Ah, there isn't any gold in these hills", said the Irishman. To Juan, he didn't quite seem to be getting it.

"Ho, ho! Yes there is! In Mesa Verde," Juan said, playfully saluting the Irishman's glass.

"Mesa Verde? It's a city."

"Of course it's a city! Who ever heard of having a bank in the country, ah?"

The Irishman glanced over at Juan's sons, who were sitting by the carriage, laughing at him.

"Uh-huh. A bank?" said the Irishman. He knew what Juan wanted him for. He was already branded a terrorist. He didn't need to be wanted for petty robbery as well.

Juan's eyes lit up in excitement "Not _a_ bank. _The_ bank. The most beautiful, wonderful, fantastic, gorgeous, magnificent bank in the whole world," he gushed, "When you stand before the bank, and you see, it has the gates of gold like it was the gates of Heaven. And when you go inside, everything, _everything is_ ** _gold._** "

 _Christ, what a ham,_ thought the Irishman. _Does he even ever shut up?_

"Gold spittoons, gold handles, and money- money- money is _everywhere._ You know? I know, cause I saw it when I was eight years old. I went there with my father. He tried to rob the bank, but they caught him. But they will never catch me. Eh, papa?"

"Right.", wheezed Old Mr. Miranda.

"Listen, firecracker", said the garrulous bandit to the Irishman, "Now you listen to me." He kneeled down right in front of the Irishman, and leaned in so close to him you'd think he was going to kiss him. He spoke very softly to him. "Why don't you come with me, and we will work together, _and we will be come rich._ " Then he realized something he'd forgot to ask him. "Hey! What the hell is your name?"

The answer came out like this:

"Sean."

"Wha?" said Juan, dumbfounded.

 _"John"_ , said the Irishman.

"Funny, yours is John!" chuckled Juan. "It's Juan and John, ah?"

"So what?", said John.

"Whadda ya mean, so what? Can't you understand it? That is… that is… Oh… ah... _destiny._ "

Destiny was a funny thing. It was always not quite what you had hoped for. John never imagined a day when he'd leave Ireland.

He remembered a day when he was driving along with his girlfriend, and his best friend Sean. He remembered how happy the three of them were together, how passionately he and his girlfriend had kissed. Whatever happened to those days?

* * *

Destiny, etymology or not, John Mallory's decision was final: "No. And I mean it."

Juan couldn't understand it. "Why? Listen, if it's money you want, I'll give you more than half. I don't care about the money. It doesn't interest me, as long as we can work together, ah?"

John wasn't listening. He was too busy loading his motorcycle. Besides, he'd have none of it. No more revolutions.

"Oh, come on!" insisted Juan. "Listen to what I'm telling you, ah? We are like two brothers! I mean, you- you make the holes with the Holy Water, and then I will go in, I will walk in and do the dirty work, ah? Listen. It takes one bandito to learn another." He held up the newspaper eagerly. John took it from him, then Juan took it back, laughing as John took it yet again.

"So you can read?", remarked John. People of Juan's class weren't necessarily known for their literacy, so this came as a surprise to him.

"Well you don't have to read, you know? I see a man's picture, I see a price on his head, so I know that man is in trouble, no?" It then occurred to Juan: "Hey… what kind of trouble are you in?"

"Oh, a wee fart of a revolution in Ireland."

"A revolution? It seems to me the revolutions are all over the world, you know?", replied Juan, "They're like the crabs! We had a revolution here. When it started, all the brave people went in it, and what it did to them was terrible. Pancho Villa, the best bandit chief in the world, you know that? This man had two balls like the bull. He went in the revolution as a great bandit. When he came out, he came out as what? Nothing. A general, huh? That, to me, is the bullshit! Wait a minute," he realized. "You come in the revolution?"

"No," said John. "No. No. One was enough for me."

He drove away on his motorcycle, hoping to get away from that annoying Juan Miranda forever. But Hell had no fury like an offer refused.

"Fuck you, you sorry son of a bitch!" called Juan, this time flattening both the tires on Juan's bike.

Once more John sighed, and appeared to raise his hands in resignation.

 _That's it_ , John thought. _I'm pullin' out all the stops on this band of idiots._

Pulling a boy off the steps of the stagecoach, he went inside, and knelt down before the makeshift shrine of the bank as if offering a prayer. When he came out, he was carrying his beloved case. Everyone else was standing far off from the stagecoach.

Juan was not going to miss his chance for big money. Also, did the gringo think he could escape that easily on foot? "Hey!"

As if by deja vu, John said the words that Juan had feared hearing again.

"Duck, you sucker."

Everybody dove for cover, and with that, the entire stagecoach went up in a blaze of glory, and when they looked up from the explosion, their new home was nothing but pieces of charred wood.

But Juan was relentless, and once again stopped John from leaving by firing a shot at his feet. John turned around again to Juan, expecting that the bandito had something to say. But Juan just stood there with his pistol aimed at the Irishman, completely speechless.

"Say, which way is it to Lucanina?" asked John.

" _Fuck you, you go find it yourself!_ " screamed Juan. John could only laugh at that. _"MEXICO IS BIG, BUT FOR YOU, IT IS GOING TO BE_ ** _VERY BIG!"_**


	3. Chapter 3- Two More Magnificent Tramps

John awoke that night, inside the ground floor of an abandoned church tower. Taking a few swigs of whiskey, he saw shapes running about, and heard voices, screaming, laughing. He set up a bomb as quickly as he could, then, making his way to the other side, behind a wall, lay down and fixed the wires to a detonator. He saw some people appearing close to where he had been, calling his name.

"John? John, it's us!"

 _Shit. How did they find him? How did they find him here? If they don't fall into his trap and start looking elsewhere, there's a good chance that he's done for._

It looked like things were going his way. The figures were going towards the place he'd camped in.

 _Come on, come on, you. Go on in there… Just a little farther inside… It's for everybody, you heathen bastards._

A shadow stepped in front of John, blocking his view, and a familiar voice inquired, "What's this? Are you crazy, are you talkin' to yourself now?".

 _For Chrissakes, Juan._

"My friend, didn't I tell you Mexico was big?", gloated Juan. A gringo with a price on his head was not hard to find, if you knew how to follow the scent. Besides, he had to stop to rest somewhere.

"Oh, shit", groaned John, sort of half-collapsing in irritation. "Who are those people inside?"

"You mean, who _were_ those people inside?", said Juan, setting off the detonator with his boot, destroying the tower behind him.

John lay on the ground, and stared in astonishment. Juan helped him up and set him down behind the wall.

" _Who_ were they? _Who_ were those people inside?" gasped John in a daze.

"Chulo!" called Juan. The boy came running up.

"Who were those people, for chrissake?" demanded John again.

"Well, one of them was Aschenbach…"

 _Fucking hell, you killed my boss?_ _For Chrissake, I was on a payroll with him._

"Then there was three soldiers and then there was one captain," continued Juan.

"Everybody's dead in there", piped in little Chulo, getting a browbeating from his father.

"Will you keep quiet and go get our friends and equipment together?" said Juan to his boy. Chulo dashed off. "Anyway, when I went to Aschenbach and I told him, I said, you wanted to see him, he wouldn't believe that, you see" Juan went on. "I said, 'Well, that's too bad, because he's discovered silver there', then when he heard that he was ready to come running. But the captain- Oh, by the way I think the captain and Aschenbach, they were working together, see? Well, the captain says, 'I want to see the man' I said to the captain, 'How can you see a man when he has blown off one of his hands with a stick of dynamite and he is bleeding to death— Well, when they heard that, they broke their asses to get here. Anyway, you don't have any problem, you see? Because they're dead and there's no questions. Also, you have no contract, so… you are free."

 _Yeah, sure there's no problem. I now have no job because of you, asshole!_ , was John's thought.

"Of course, there is one little problem. That will be with the army, because they have a hard ass when it comes to the death of one of their captains", continued Juan. "But you don't have to worry about that, because I am your friend Juan, and I will help you."

John didn't suppose that Juan was going to help him find a new job.

"I would do anything, believe me, I would say anything you tell me to-"

But John had to stop him there. "No, no", he said, wearily "I don't need any help from you to know I've been screwed. You fucking chicken thief."

Juan looked hurt by that remark. He cringed away slightly at John's gaze.

As for John, he knew that Juan had at last had him cornered. "What do you want with me?"

"Nothing", said Juan coyly. "I just thought we could go to Mesa Verde." He bit his lip eagerly.

* * *

"The bank", said John, as he, Juan and the bandit gang rode their horses along the railroad tracks. "Isn't there anything else you remember about Mesa Verde?"

Juan had gotten wasted on the way to the railroad, and now was even more talkative than ever, "Oh, yes, there's a place where you can - you can go in and sit down and eat, and when you look in front of you there's-"

"The bank."

"Thassrigh', howdoyaknowthat?" John didn't answer. "Listen, Mesa Verde, that's only the beginning. Lemme tell you, it will be Juan and John, the two specialistas in banks. We'll call it Johnny and Johnny, eh? Thass more American, you know? Amigo, we go to America, we have banks all over the place, you know? In California, Colorado, Kansas City, Texas, and Austin, you know?" The drunk bandit didn't notice the train slowly coming up behind them. "You know, you have to- to think of the big future that we have ahead of us."

"I'm thinking of the big train behind us", said John sarcastically.

"Hey! Out of the way!" cried the conductor behind them, slamming the brakes.

Juan moved his horse to the left side of the tracks, and John to the right. Getting off his horse, Juan tried to peer past the train for any sign of John.

When the train finally got past, he saw John's horse, but no John. Sneaky bastard had jumped onto the train as it was going past. Some sense of humor he had, too, dressing the horse with his hat. Like he was mocking them. He was so going to get that firecracker, dynamite or no.

* * *

Everywhere else was full. The train carriage was full of greasy, surly-faced young men, some as young as eight. The older ones were sitting and smoking. Dr. Villega had two options. Either bear the smell from the cigars a little longer, or stand for the rest of the journey.

Napoleon woke up Chulo, who had taken up two spaces sleeping on one of the benches, to allow Villega to sit down. The doctor nodded gratefully, but decided to sit somewhere else, closer to the door.

On the other side of the carriage, Juan stared lazily at him, swatting at flies. He was observing the doctor carefully as he cleaned his glasses and took out his book, then decided he wasn't worth his attention and closed his eyes.

* * *

The screeching of brakes and the creaking of doors woke Juan. They couldn't have reached Mesa Verde already. He drew the blind and looked out to check. Looking up at the train was a train conductor, a guy he recognized. He quickly leaned back, hoping he didn't see his face. The conductor went up and walked inside. Juan awkwardly picked the sleep from his eyes as he walked past. Dr. Villega was watching him, but seemed to go back to reading.

The conductor stared over at Juan. He was sure he'd seen that face before. He started to walk out, but then he thought, "No. I know it's him. I have to make sure."

Juan quickly lowered his hat and pretended to go back to sleep, but he wasn't fast enough.

"Hey, you.", said the conductor. He sharply raised Juan's chin, looking straight into his eyes. "I know that face. Where have I see you before, hmm?"

Juan shrugged.

The conductor wasn't buying it, but before he could do anything, Juan knifed him to death and threw the body off the train.

Suddenly, he turned sharply, the bloody knife in his hand. From the corridor came a voice saying, "Stop right where you are."

Standing beside Villega was a conductor with a gun.

"Drop the knife, you bastard," growled the other conductor.

Well, there wasn't much Juan could do against a gun. He braced himself for the inevitable. To his initial confusion, the other conductor also raised his hands.

"I have a family", pleaded that second conductor. He was talking to Villega, who was holding his own gun to the man. Villega made an expression that read, "I did what I had to do."

Juan laughed triumphantly, disarming the conductor. "I have a family too, ah?" he bragged before throwing the other guy off the train.

He went over to pick up the empty gun at Dr. Villega's feet, and as he got up, peered with curiosity and admiration at the man's face. Villega grimaced and returned his concentration to reading.

Knowing best not to pick a fight with this man, Juan returned to his seat, and was no trouble to Dr. Villega at all for the rest of the journey.


	4. Chapter 4- Mesa Verde

Finally the train reached Mesa Verde. When Juan awoke, he recognised the station. With a big eager grin on his face, he, along with his family, stepped off the train and bounded happily across the tracks towards the exit. Oh, they could not _wait_ to rob that bank!

The inside of the station was beautiful. The skirting was decorated with lovely blue and green mosaics, and the doorway they walked through was wood, and ornately carved. Oh, Mesa Verde must be heaven if even the station was this gorgeous. There were wealthy people chatting inside, as well as a few soldiers. Talking, laughing... probably Federales ready to take down people like Juan when they had the chance. Continuing to admire the scenery, a poster caught Juan's eye. It said, "El Sr. Gobernador Ama Al Pueblo: El Pueblo Ama Al Sr. Gobernador" ( _"Mr. Governor Loves The People: The People Love The Governor"_ ). Eh. Juan didn't care what it meant. Whoever the governor was, he wasn't his problem. He was happy to be in Mesa Verde for the first time in years. He stepped outside and, _Dios mio_ , weren't the buildings magnificent.

"Beautiful, ah?" was all Juan could say.

Just then, before he could react, a man ran up and collapsed into Juan's arms, a shot ringing out.

And for the first time since he got there, Juan looked straight ahead.

 _... What the fuck?_

Soldiers swarmed the streets like ants, in small, tight groups, chanting _Uno, dos, uno, dos, uno, dos..._

Juan had never heard of "National socialists", which wouldn't usurp Germany for another twenty years or so, but if he did, this is exactly what they looked like.

Three Mesa Verde citizens stood against the wall, a line of soldiers standing opposite them. Those men didn't look like criminals. They didn't have guns, or holsters, or anything. What, then, could they have done to deserve standing in a firing line? He saw that one guy did go up and spit on a poster, just like the one he saw in the station. Spitting on a poster didn't seem like grounds for execution.

Fleeing into a building, Juan and Napoleon peeked out from between several boards, tearing apart a Gobernador poster in the process. Amusingly, Juan tore it at the eyes so that his seemed to align with the Governor's face. He saw the men gunned down by the soldiers.

"Hey, God", said Juan, seemingly to no one, "You sure this is Mesa Verde?"

God wasn't the chatty type but there was no way he could prove it wasn't.

* * *

Finally reaching the bank, Juan ushered his boys across the square, lagging behind to take one longing look at the place. He stopped by a cafe across from the bank, and, shoving Napoleon aside, peeked in through the window.

There was someone sitting in the cafe, hidden by a potted plant. Juan went inside to get a better look.

It was John.

Juan walked over to him. John recognised the bandit's gait so he didn't even turn around to look.

"You have your beans with chili or not?", said John.

"I don't want nothing from you", growled Juan.

"Ah, come on, have some beans", started John, jovially.

"Listen to me, you son of a bitch!" interrupted Juan in an angry whisper. "You pull that trick on me one more time, I break your goddamn head!"

"Well, for chrissake", retorted John, "A train comes along and I take it. Been waiting for you in Mesa Verde ever since."

"Not my Mesa Verde! This place has changed! This shit is covered with soldiers like the flies!" babbled Juan, sitting abruptly opposite John.

"Hey, hey", said John calmly, "Just the way we like it."

Juan couldn't believe it. He couldn't understand it. _What, this place?_

"What do you mean, it's just the way we like it?"

"If it's a revolution", said John carefully, "it's confusion."

* * *

John was reminded of the night he saw Sean handing out newspapers in the pub, stirring up what he thought would be a moment of historic heroism, but what would inevitably lead to chaos.

* * *

"What are you talking about, revolution confusion?", said Juan, a little confused himself.

"Where there's confusion, a man who knows what he wants stands a good chance of getting it", replied John, seeking understanding in Juan's eyes.

"I don't understand you", said Juan. That went without saying.

A man walked up to them.

"This him?", he inquired.

Juan automatically stood up from his chair.

"That's him", answered John, as he stood up to leave. Juan grabbed his shoulder as John started after the stranger.

"Him who?", said Juan. He couldn't help but feel that he was the "him" that John and the stranger were referring to, but he wanted to make sure.

"You trust me?"

"No."

"You want to get inside over there?"

"Si."

"Well, I'm going to see to it that you have that chance," said John. "Come on."

And without a word, Juan followed John and the other man into the back of the cafe.


	5. Chapter 5- ¡Viva Miranda!

John and Juan followed the man into the cellar. The sound of moaning and whimpering came from the darkness. Inside the room was a group of men, all standing around. The moaning became screaming, and a voice was heard saying, "Don't move, God damn it! Hold him still."

There, beside a table, was Dr. Villega, whom Juan had met earlier on the train, removing a bullet from the screaming man's back.

"That does it... relax, now... relax... it's all over..." Villega said soothingly to the patient. "If you'd let this infection go any longer, your widow would be paying my bill". He then turned around and recognised John. "Mallory!", he laughed, "You've hardly joined us in Mesa Verde, and already you're front page news! 'Irish dynamiter wanted for murder'", he added, showing the article to John, and giving a little "Hm?" for approval.

John directed both their attention over to Juan, who was standing shyly in the shadows.

"You have a real talent for making friends", said Villega warmly. "You know, you've stirred up a hornet's nest. I'll grant you the captain, but for now, nobody dared take a crack at foreign capitalists. Not even Pancho Villa. It seems even His Majesty's Secret Service would like to get their hands on you. Yet you are an asset to us," he continued as he walked over to John, "even if sometimes you do drink a bit too much."

"Who says I drink too much?", retorted John, as though ashamed of it.

Villega mockingly checked John's eye. "Your liver does."

"What about that one- him?", a raspy-voiced man asked, indicating Juan.

"He's alright", said Villega, "Except that when operating, he cuts deeper than I do."

"What the doctor means is that one time, we did a- we did a little work together", said Juan nervously.

"And now", said the doctor, ignoring Juan, "to our work, friends."

The men gathered around him.

"I have good news", announced Villega, straightening out a piece of paper. "In two days, Villa and Zapata with attack simultaneously from North and South. We here, like those in other cities, must begin parallel actions of harassment. Huerta's downfall is just a question of weeks. Whereas Miguel's is only a question of hours if he doesn't stop smoking", he remarked at the raspy voiced man who wouldn't stop coughing.

The other men laughed.

"Easy to say", wheezed Miguel.

"Well, we'll attack in four places at the same time", continued Villega. "Antonio, your men are to hit the city hall and the old prison. So it would be necessary to divide into two groups, one under the command of Jose. Ah, Jesus, the railway station and the marshalling yards as planned, right?" Jesus nodded sagely. "Make sure you're in position in plenty of time, in small groups so you won't attract attention", Villega went on. "Don't forget to act like ordinary travellers or railroad employees. You, Manolo and Juanito will attack the army barracks with our main forces, agreed?" Manolo agreed. "This, mind you, is their maximum point of concentration", Villega advised him, "and is the key to the success of our plan. You must create the impression of a massive attack. And if necessary, be prepared to make the final sacrifice."

As Villega was speaking, Juan got John's attention by tapping him on the shoulder. He made a motion like "Hey, let's get out of here, shall we?" John ignored him.

"The fourth and last target", said Villega "Ortega, the post office. When the enemy is busy on four fronts, we'll move against our real objective. Are we still agreeing?" he said to John. John nodded. "You'll need men", Villega told him.

"I only need one man", said John.

Dr. Villega looked perplexed. "One?"

"Si", replied John.

Villega again motioned towards Juan. "Him".

"Him?", exclaimed Juan. "Him? What is with this 'him'? 'Him' whom? 'Whom' him, ah? To do what, that's what I want to know!"

"To attack the bank", said John softly.

Finally Juan understood. They were going to be performing a mass heist of everywhere in Mesa Verde. And Juan was finally going to pull off his dream robbery.

"The bank? W-w-we-we-we'll take care of the bank. I mean, that's why we're here, so don't you worry about that.", Juan assured everyone.

"Well, what can I say? Except I hope you make it," laughed Dr. Villega.

"Me too. And him", said Juan jovially.

"Well, we'll meet again tonight, to discuss details", said Villega, closing the meeting. "I have to go now. I left a woman in labor and she can't wait till the revolution's over." This drew laughter from all Villega's friends in the room. "Tierra y libertad", the doctor greeted the men.

"Tierra y libertad!", chanted the men.

"...bertad!" echoed Juan, who had said it about half a second after they did.

"Now, go upstairs, leave one at a time, and keep out of sight", the doctor instructed as the men left. "Speaking of sight, how's your cataract?", he said conversationally to Miguel.

As the men left one by one, John and Juan hung back and waited until they had all gone.

"Well-" started John.

"Shh!" interrupted Juan. "You don't have to say anything. I understand everything", he said in a whisper. "Tierra yyyy Libertad!"

"Y libertad", said John.

The two of them drank to their good health.

Juan- as always- didn't understand a thing.

* * *

John sat and drank in the cafe, casually observing the bank from the window. He glanced at the clock. Now was the time.

He motioned silently to Napoleon waiting by the kitchen door, who signalled to Juan, who was making tortillas in the kitchen, who signalled to one of his other sons and then a third, who had gotten up to signal to little Chulo crouching by the side of the bank.

John watched as Chulo pulled a little wooden train on a string, walking up to two guards standing by the bank door, and leaning casually on the doorframe beside one of them. John held his breath as one of the soldiers started to beckon Chulo away from the bank, almost sure that the plan was going to fail. Hurriedly, he glanced at the clock to see if it was time yet.

Thank God it was. Sounds of gunshots came from off in the distance. And the guards were pre-occupied, one of them calling for the other guards from inside the bank.

This was Chulo's chance to pull the fuse out from the train and hurry back across the street to the cafe.

John let out a small sign of relief.

Everything was in a panic. Perfect.

The boy climbed in through the window. His proud father urged him, "Go".

Chulo understood and pulled the fuse until he was within John's line of sight.

"Hey. Psst, psst." he gestured to John. And without a moment's pause, John got up and went over behind the counter with a "Bravo, Chulo".

"Take it", whispered Napoleon, "Take it!"

Taking the fuse, John hooked it to a detonator.

Juan peeked over the counter at the bank. "Boy, there must- must be a lot of money in the bank, ah? Look at all the soldiers."

John handed a pack of dynamite over to Juan. "Do you know how this works?"

"Si, it's a- a short fuse", said Juan, thinking he recognised it.

"No."

"No?"

"Normal rate. Thirty seconds," explained John.

"Si, thirty seconds", repeated Juan, a little nervous.

There had been enough chaos already outside the bank. It was time for the beginning to an explosive raid. John pushed down the detonator and the bank entrance burst into flames.

The beginning of the raid was almost like how Juan had imagined it.

The Mirandas raced across the street to the bank, dodging gunfire from wounded but desperate soldiers hit by the explosion. Once inside, they were met with soldiers who shot down one of Juan's men, but themselves were killed by the invading bandit family.

They arrived in an ornate hall of polished wood and red velvet, not that different from the carriage that Juan and his sons had robbed earlier.

Another of Juan's men checked the drawers for money.

"What did you find?" called Juan.

"Nothing but scrap paper", replied the boy. He then saw a sign with an arrow pointing the vaults. "Hey, wait a minute! It's pointing down there!" A soldier came up and shot the boy in the gut. Juan returned fire and slew the soldier with his pistol.

The Mirandas were now once again under attack. Another soldier came up to investigate. Juan's sons hid by one wall, and the soldier behind the doorway.

Juan got the soldier's attention with a "Psst", before shooting him.

Yes. Save for a few losses, this was going as planned.

Juan checked to see if the coast was clear, then motioned his gang forward once he was sure it was safe.

Four more soldiers rushed forward, but the bandits shot them down with no more casualties on their own side.

Juan looked into one of the unlocked vaults. Nothing there. He shrugged, before reloading his gun and one of his own men's.

Inching closer to one of the vaults that was locked, he fired his pistol at the lock, and opened the door to find...

People.

Wait, what?

Juan didn't understand. Were they using people as currency? Since when were people worth more than money? At least, in a bank?

Well, whatever. There had to be more gold in the next vault- No. More people. What was going on here? Juan snarled with frustration.

He moved from vault to vault, expecting to find more gold, but no! Only people. Seriously, this was getting annoying.

By the time he'd gotten to the last vault, there were hundreds of men following him.

OK, fine, then. But he was going to get that gold, one way or another.

He came across a locked metal door at the end of one of the corridors. This must have been it. They wouldn't store people in there.

Juan beamed avariciously, and advanced up the small staircase towards the door. "That's the safe!", he exclaimed.

Running towards it excitedly, he tried to find a lock, but realised that it must have been locked from the inside. Time to use the thirty second dynamite. He attached two sticks to the door, and lit the fuses.

"Duck, you suckers!" he cried as he ran down the steps and hid behind a nearby brick wall.

There was a loud explosion.

Letting out a determined chuckle, Juan dashed out the door to find...

The exit? Wait, but-!

A massive crowd of men- bandits like him- raced towards the bank, blocking the path of Juan's gang.

Juan himself managed to make it down a side street, only to be grabbed on the arm by John, who was hiding behind a corner.

"Where are you goin' for chrissake?" asked John.

"I dunno. I dunno, but something's wrong", panted Juan. "I went into the bank- An' when I go in the bank there's no money, nothing."

"Oh, well, the bank and the money were transferred to Mexico City over a month ago", said John smugly. "Well, they've been using this place for a political prison ever since".

In a rage, Juan drew out his gun. He'd been tricked! John only laughed merrily.

"What do you mean, a political prison?", growled Juan.

"Ah, well I never said a thing about money, all I asked you was if you wanted to get inside", said John cheerfully. He had played Juan like a harp from hell.

"But, you know, this bank is my life! _This is my dream!_ " cried Juan.

"Well, the reality of that", said John sweetly, "is ye just liberated a hundred and fifty patriots through sheer courage in the face of danger." He gave a dismayed and stunned Juan a friendly pat on the back, giggling like a naughty child. "Ah, yes", he said, leaning straight into Juan's ear, "Yer a grand hero of the revolution, now. ¡Viva Miranda!"

Juan turned to face John, realising the full extent of John's deceit.

"I don't want to be a hero! All I want is the money! The money!" protested Juan as citizens flocked from every corner of the street and lifted him up, praising him as the hero they assumed him to be.

"¡Viva Miranda!" bellowed John again.

 _"You taught me one thing!"_ screamed Juan as John walked away laughing.

"What?" called back John.

Juan raised a single, stubby middle finger to John. _"How to get fucked!"_


	6. Chapter 6- Here I Stay

Col. Gunther Reza patrolled with his thousands of men through the Mexican countryside. He was a young, bony-faced man. He didn't talk much, but he only said what was necessary.

* * *

In a forest clearing, at the camp of the resistance, Juan had finished his meal and tossed his plate away, over at the side of his family tent, and walked over to John, who was reading a book by his own tent. There was a large flat piece of paper lying opposite John, behind his head.

"What's that?", asked Juan.

"It's a map," said John. "It's your country you're lyin' all over", he said as Juan leaned back against it.

Well, to Juan, it was a flat mattress now, with a water canteen as a makeshift pillow. Even if he didn't want to be a hero, he'd done as much work as the others, attacking the bank, so he needed his rest.

"Not my country", said Juan drowsily. "My country is me and my family."

Juan had been right earlier, however. Mexico _was_ big.

"Well, you're country's also Huerta, and the Governor, and the Landlords, and Gunther Reza and his locusts, and this little revolution we're having here.", John said.

"Revolution?", exclaimed Juan indignantly, getting up from the map he'd been lying on. "What do you mean, revolution? Please don't tell me about revolution. I know all about the revolutions and how they start! The people that read the books, they go to the people that can't read the books, the book people say, 'Ho ho, The time has come to have a change,' ah?"

"Shhhh!" hissed John.

Juan was having none of that. "SHH! SHH! SHH! SHH! SHH! SHH! _SHIT! SHUSH! I know what I'm talking about when I talk about the revolutions!_ _"_ He looked around to make sure no one else was listening and continued in a loud whisper. "The people who read the books, go to the people who can't read the books, the poor people say, "We have to have a change" so the poor people can make the change, ah? An' then the people that read the books, they sit around the big polished tables, and they talk and talk and talk and eat and eat and eat, ah? _But what has happened to the poor people? They're **dead!**_ _",_ he screamed, his eyes burning with rage. _"That's_ your revolution!" He looked around once more. "Sh. So please. Don't tell me about revolutions." He started to settle back down, but he had one more thing to say. "And what happens? The same fucking thing starts all over again!"

With a heavy sigh, Juan lay back down once more to rest.

Giving it some thought, John threw a book, titled "THE PATRIOTISM" by Mikhael A. Bakunin, into the mud.

* * *

That same book was trodden even further into the mud by an EM-11 van of a Huerta soldier (Symbolism!), and a passing soldier noticed it and picked it up, handing it to the captain. The captain handed it to Reza, who inspected it carefully.

The revolutionaries, Juan and John had already long evacuated the camp, and were hiding out into the mountains.

* * *

Juan shrugged to Dr. Villega. It seems that there was no other choice. He figured his children would be safe hiding in the grottos up in the mountains.

But John wasn't so sure. This whole idea of everybody hiding in the caves, while only he and Juan stayed and fought. Why don't they all just stay out and fight? They have enough men to take on Reza, don't they?

Besides, they were right where they could see those insects, on a mountainside overlooking the bridge of San Jorge.

"I don't like it either", confessed Villega. "Only, Gunther Reza is less than 20 miles from here. He's on the road that leads to the bridge down there. They will comb the area, bush by bush. That's why the order is to pull back and hide in the San Ysidro caves."

"Oh, that's a brilliant order", said John sarcastically. "Here we are facing it. You and the rest of you someplace dreaming, wanting to piss it up against the wall."

"Not everybody can fight", Villega reasoned. "There are those who must organize, co-ordinate".

"Yes, yes, of course..." said John distractedly. "Yeah, well, don't pay any attention to me. It's personal," he said, as he walked away.

Juan was sitting from Villega's horse-drawn chariot, watching this with interest. This gringo sure had _cojones._ He could use this to his advantage.

Indeed, John wrenched a machine gun stand from a man who was about to take it away, and announced, "Sorry about those orders. I'm stayin'. I don't give a _fuck_ about your revolutions", he said as he took a gun barrel from a horse saddle and attached it to the stand. "I'm tired of running up and down these mountains... I'm gettin' nowhere so I've stopped... right here at the bridge of San Jorge". As he was saying this he aimed the barrel at the bridge, right where Reza and his men would be coming along. "Maybe it's outta... spite for you and your slow dream, or maybe... maybe my feet are sore."

Dr. Villega smiled. For someone who didn't give a fuck about the revolution, John sure invested quite a bit of time to it.

From Juan's point of view, John was one to defy authority, even though John hadn't wanted to stop working for Aschenbach and was left unemployed when Juan had killed him with John's own detonator.

With a laugh, he decided, "Well, if he's gonna stay, I'm gonna stay, too, maybe 'cause my feet are sore, too, ah?" He chuckled exuberantly, and called to the other men. "Hombres! Me and the Irlandes, here, we're gonna catch ourselves a couple of the fucking locusts!"

Somewhere, in another country, a couple of locusts who were mating might have taken offense to that.

The revolutionaries started to leave, but Juan had more to say. "Attention!", he yelled again. "You go back and hide in the grotto! And if things go bad here, every man for himself! You move your asses! Comprendes? Vamos ahora!" Again the men started to leave.

Bounding off the wagon, Juan warmly shook the hands of each of his sons.

With all of his heart, Juan greeted the boys farewell with these words:

"If something happens, and your father doesn't come back, then I pray that the great God in Heaven takes care of you."

Kissing his youngest sons on the head (and giving Napoleon his usual strike across the cheek; that foolish boy wanted to stay behind, but it was too dangerous for him), he sent them away, with the full assurance that God was on his side.

Then he went up to Dr. Villega and shook his hand.

"Now, good luck", said the doctor.

"Thank you", said Juan. He was sure that Villega was beginning to like him, despite their first meeting on the train. He also didn't think Villega would expect him to stay and fight.

As Villega and the Miranda boys rode off, Juan and John were left all alone.

"Listen", said Juan to John, "When they are out of sight, we make a run for it, si?" What was John thinking, anyway? He had no chance against Gunther Reza, not even with a machine gun. This whole mission was crazy. It was suicidal!

Saying nothing, John took down more parts to load the machine gun, walking past Juan.

Juan ran back up to him, and tried some more to talk him out of it. "No? You can't mean to stay here. All those explosions must have gone to your head." He then put his arm over John's shoulder while resting his head comfortably on his left. "Remember, John and Juan, ah? America? The millions? No?"

John turned his head sharply to face Juan, glaring at him.

"No,", said John curtly, taking a swig from a canteen.

"I don't understand you!", cried Juan, "I thought you make some kind of trick so we can get out of here! What can we do against those locusts?"

Juan had a valid point, but it wasn't an ideal one.

"Oh, you'd be doing me a favour if you'd _leave!_ ", yelled John. "If it's a choice I'd have to make between a chicken thief and riddin' the world of a few uniforms... I'll not be choosing the chicken thief."

At first, Juan decided to take it in stride. "Okay. Okay." Then as he walked away, he realised what John's game was, and suddenly screamed, _"NO!"_ Laughing, he said, "Oh, no, no, no, no, no. You would like that, ah?". He walked angrily back towards John. "You listen to me, **you Irish piece of shit! You think you're the only man who has the balls to stay. Well, you are WRONG!** _Cause I have the balls and I... **stay!**_ "

Well, if he said so. John wasn't going to be missing him much when he was gone.

Juan walked to a place further up the hill. John stayed put, watching the bridge gleefully through a pair of binoculars.

Meanwhile, from his position, behind his own machine gun, Juan also watched the bridge through his own pair binoculars. Amusingly, he was watching it through the wrong end.

"He says there's no danger," he muttered to himself, "All you have to do is just watch the bridge from a long way. No matter how I look with them I'm still too close to the bridge." As he adjusted his binoculars so he was watching through the right end, and looked around the site of the bridge, he continued to complain. "Why am I mixed up in this revolution in the first place? Go ahead, you tell me, God. What am I doing here? Why didn't you strike me dead instead of letting me say, 'I stay, too?'"

He looked over at John, who was casually sauntering up the side of the mountain.

"Ho ho, Look at him," Juan said to the lord his God, "Look at him. All because of him. He acts like a tourist who's going somewhere, only he's staying. Look at him."

John had laid his stuff around a little spot on the mountain and was now attaching the gun barrel.

"What the hell does he care?", Juan continued to mutter. "He's having fun. I'm glad he's having fun, God, because I am not having fun. Oh-ho. No."

He watched John as the Irishman took off his hat, ruffled his ash blonde hair, and sat down with his hat as though he was going to set it over his face.

 _Hey... what's this?_

John had now made himself comfortable, his feet stretched out, and set his hat way low, practically over his face.

"Now he goes to sleep, huh?", said Juan to himself. "Go ahead, you sleep. Sleep." Then he confided in God his dark plan. "I tell you something. When he's asleep, I go. Shh." He'd hoped the Lord wouldn't rat him out on this.

"May the good Lord watch over you", he quietly towards John, like he meant it. Then, with an evil chuckle, he prepared to leave, when suddenly he heard a motor approaching.

A huge, metal tank, winding its way down the road towards the bridge

 _Oh, fuck, it's Reza. Right at the front. Shit._

They were close to the bridge, but still way too far away for Juan to fire at them, let alone John, who as far as Juan knew was dozing at his post.

Panicked, and cornered, Juan tried to rouse John. He whispered, "Hey, psst!" and threw a rock at him, but the Irishman didn't stir.

"God, only an idiot could sleep at a time like this!", raged Juan quietly.

But John hadn't been asleep at all. He'd been watching, still and quiet, like a coiled viper, ignoring Juan's pestering.

Juan was ready to fire, thumbs nervously on the handles of his machine gun, but John was more than ready. He'd waited carefully until they were all on the bridge, and raised his thumb for the signal. Juan crossed himself. John lowered his thumb as an indication to fire. Juan tried firing his gun, but the controls seemed to be stuck or something.

John looked at Juan frantically fiddling with the gun, and then all of a sudden, as though fate wanted to mess with Juan, his machine gun went off without warning.

At first, Juan couldn't control his gun. But then he got more used to it and both were firing away happily at the soldiers, enjoying the destruction and carnage as men and horses below them dropped like flies.

Juan felt amazing. Nothing like it before in his life. Both men smiled at each other. This was fun.

Once they had finished firing, John put some cotton buds into his ears, and got out a detonator. Juan knew that this attack was going to go out with a bang, and, with a little knowing smile, stuck his fingers in his ears to prepare for the deafening sound.

This time around, John didn't have to say "Duck, you sucker" to prepare Juan for it. For one, Juan knew when to duck. The unfortunate ones were the suckers down below them.

The ground shook. Even John was blown back by it.

The bridge collapsed in dust and smoke. It was quite a magnificent sight.

Juan peered over the rocks, behind which he had ducked for cover. The bridge was completely gone. Twisted heaps of tanks and trucks dangled on the remains.

Once more, the men smiled at each other, and Juan gave an 'A-okay' sign to John.

The two really did seem to be becoming firm friends. Juan was kind of glad he'd decided to stay.

* * *

Somehow, Col. Reza had survived the wreckage. He scrambled out from the dust and the smoke, and looked around, dead soldiers and tanks about him. For some mysterious reason, Reza was a survivor. Hardly anything could touch him, or at least he'd leave a battlefield with little more than a scratch on his face. One could argue that he was strong, tenacious, quick to avoid danger. Others would say that he was simply lucky.


	7. Chapter 7- The 6x6 Dad

The grotto was a fairly nice looking place, the outside covered with vines, and inside was lit with reflections from camp fires.

Juan lumbered out of the grotto, as though in a trance, his mind trying to process what he had just seen. Funny thing about horrific sights. You want to keep looking back at them and burn the image into your mind. You don't _want_ to, that is, but the mind sort of automatically convinces itself that they had not imagined what they had seen.

And this hit poor Juan where it hurt.

He tried to get his head around it. He reminded himself that this was all his fault. He shouldn't have listened to Dr. Villega. Maybe...

He sat in silence, around the corner from where he had seen the destruction.

John stood on the opposite side of the grotto entrance, watching him with pity.

How could it have happened? He... he felt like a piece of him like had been torn out of him. Completely lost and alone.

"All of them", he said, his voice choked. "Six. Never counted them before." He began to take deep, shuddering breaths, as though to keep from crying. Then, with an angry, bloodshot glare up at the heavens, Juan furiously tore the cross from his neck, his face morphing into an ugly gurn. Tight-lipped, his eyes shifted. He thought that God had promised. He had _prayed_ for the safety of his children. Clearly, the good Lord had betrayed him. But why?

John stared with deep, soulful, remorseful eyes at Juan, who was staring forlornly at nothing.

Slowly, Juan got up. Tossing away the crucifix, he pulled himself together, and grabbed a gun that was lying in one of the tents. If his children were dead, then what was the use of living this way any more?

"No, Juan, no", said John. "No, for chrissake, they're waitin' for you out there."

Looking John in the eyes for a moment, Juan marched outside. Even if he died, he was going to kill those sons of bitches, one way or another.

John knew it was too dangerous to try to stop him, because whatever he tried, it could get them both killed. Slowly, he walked towards the grotto. Outside came the sound of Juan's angry gunfire, and the soldiers returning fire at him.

The sight inside the grotto was not one for the faint-hearted. Piles of corpses of revolutionaries lay sprawled all over the inside, in a tangled web of flesh. There they were. Miguel, Antonio, Jose, Jesus ... Manolo, Juanito, Ortega... and the grisly sight that made Juan weep. All six of his children, dead. Napoleon... Benito... Pepe... Juan's father, too, lay dead among them.

John was disturbed by the sight himself. Especially Chulo. John couldn't look away from the dead, dark eyes of Chulo.

Outside, there was indistinct chatter in Spanish. A voice in English shouted, "Hold it! Throw that bastard onto the truck! Let's see he gets to the camp alive!"

 _Brilliant. All the revolutionaries dead, and Juan captured. Well, he guessed he had to go save him then._

* * *

It was raining when John arrived at the execution grounds. Prisoners were lining up one by one to be shot, while officials sheltered themselves in automobiles and watched from a safe distance as the bodies piled up in front of the stone wall. On the wall were marked white stripes, as though the prisoners were being tallied. Soldiers marched in, in their waterproof capes, chanting _Uno, dos, uno, dos, uno, dos..._

Hiding himself within the crowd, John's eyes darted about urgently, looking for anything Juan-shaped among the dozens of unfortunate souls about to meet death by rifle. He searched their faces, but none of them looked anything like him.

So either Juan hadn't been executed yet, or he was dead and John had been too late.

Diverting his attention to the cars, John saw Col. Reza smirking at the carnage, while manually operating the window wipers. And next to him, in the passenger seat was...

 _Oh, you have to be fucking kidding me._

It was Dr. Villega. He had given away the Revolutionaries' hiding place to Reza. He had been responsible for the murder of Juan's children. But he had been reluctant to the betrayal. At a closer look, Villega's face was pale, and covered in cuts and bruises. He had been tortured into telling them about the grotto.

Just like Sean.

* * *

John remembered the night when he was having a drink at Mitchell's Pub, when the police came in after him. With them was a soldier, and dragging along with him a bruised and bloodied Sean.

 _Is this the man?_ , the soldier seemed to say.

Deeply ashamed, Sean had nodded, heavily regretting betraying his friend.

It was a good thing, or perhaps not a good thing at all, that John had come prepared.

It was over in a moment. Blood spurted out of the bodies of the policemen, and oozed out of the hole in Sean Nolan's head. It had hurt John somewhat for him to kill his best friend, but under these circumstances, he had no choice. The man betrayed him, sold him out to the police. It had been the only way he could ever escape.

This had been the full price that John Mallory had to pay for the revolution. This is what it would lead to- friends killing friends. All because they had dared to fight the system. It felt in the end like the joke was on them.

* * *

On the execution grounds, John watched with horror as his friends were callously murdered _en masse._ There was a possibility to him that Villega had been feeling the same shock and sadness as well.

It was too late to do anything now. He was furious at Villega, but he had been forced to betray everyone against his will, and glowered at Reza as he drove by in the automobile. All there was for him was to save Juan, if indeed he had been spared until later.

* * *

Col. Reza believed that simply sucking on an egg was essential nutrition, especially for a soldier. He strode out that fine morning, sucking his egg, onto the execution grounds. He had decided to save Juan as the best execution for last. He had been a late arrival anyway. He turned away. He didn't care who Juan was, or what his record was. He was with the revolution, and had fired upon his soldiers.

Juan blinked and squinted at the glaring sun as he stood by one of the white tallies. If this meant that he was going back to his sons again, then he was ready to await his death.

He lowered his hat so he would not see the soldiers' rifles.

And then...

He heard whistling.

Where was that whistling coming from?

The soldiers aimed.

Then came that familiar cry.

"Duck, you sucker!"

This time, Juan didn't hesitate to duck for cover. Once more, he was a sucker. But he was sure as hell glad to hear John again.

The soldiers exploded. Dust and dirt kicked up around Juan. There before him lay the dead executioners.

The wall blew open. Reza came running out to see John speeding in on his motorcycle. Juan leapt up onto the back of it and the two rode off.

Reza's eyes burned with fury as he watched them.

* * *

The streets were filled with executions. Soldiers murdered hundreds of civilians in drained and dry canals. To the soldiers, it was a cheap and efficient way of keeping Huerta in rule. To the civilians watching, it was mass genocide.

A train came into town, filling the air with heavy black smoke. Some of the executioners stood on the walls of the makeshift trenches, right next to the train as it arrived, though it was several feet away from them.

The rich sat comfortably inside, the poor clambered into separate, cramped carriages, and soldiers mounted the top of it.

A soldier who had been with the revolution was executed outside one of the buildings.

Juan and John hid in a cargo carriage of the train. Juan peeked out from the shuttered windows at the carnage, the executions, the madness. It was hard to watch, especially after...

He turned away, and plodded to the back of the carriage. He gathered some bundles of cloth for himself, and made a seat for himself beneath a birdcage. John watched him sympathetically, but averted his gaze when Juan looked him straight in the eye, realizing it disrespectful. Looking at him would only make Juan more upset.

Slowly, Juan sat down and took his hat off. Though he made sure John wasn't looking, he turned away. John turned his face towards Juan again.

Tears rolled down Juan's cheeks. Hurriedly, he tried to wipe them away once he realized that John saw, but he couldn't help but sit and sigh heavily. It had seemed better for him to have died, than for him to have lived with the misery of seeing his father and children dead. He had never felt so alone in his life before.

Leaning back, and shaking his head, as though trying to shake away the pain, Juan shut his eyes.

Suddenly, the bird in the cage above Juan defecated on his head. Wiping the mess away, he glanced up at the offender.

"But for the rich, you sing", he said.

John began to laugh. His teeth were huge, and white, and pearly, and seemed to dominate his entire face, if possible.

"Oh, Jesus, Juan!", he exclaimed. "Anyway, I'd say if they ever get this thing underway, we might be able to make the border by, what? Sometime tonight, you think? America. It's America, Juan. Oh Jesus, if it's as great as they say it is, filled with bags stuffed full of dreams. Juan!"

Juan still sat there, staring at nothing. He didn't want gold now. He wanted his family back.

"Oh, Jesus..." muttered John under his breath. There was nothing he was able to do to cheer up the bandit. It was best to leave him alone, until he was finished dwelling on the awful tragedy. However, John wasn't about to give up. Juan couldn't just sit around in a deep depression _forever._ Besides, this had been Juan's dream. What he'd always wanted. John had wanted to make it up to Juan, for tricking him into becoming a revolutionary hero.

"Jesus, Juan... What was it? Juan and John? Johnny and Johnny?" said John. Juan didn't stir.

"I make the holes and you get in. Fifty-fifty, right?", persisted John.

Just then, the train began to move, and then stopped. John watched the commotion from the window. An automobile pulled up in front of it. Out stepped the Governor, Don Jaime. John watched with a predatory fury as he stepped onto the train.

"What's happening?" said Juan.

"Eh, they're just moving the train around", said John. "Seems we'll be leavin' shortly. Uniforms just finished loadin' on the last o' their shit."


	8. Chapter 8- The Exit Strategy

Governor Don Jaime lay on his bed, reading a newspaper, _El Imparcial_ as the train puffed and chugged its way to the American border. The headline read, in Spanish, _Revolutionary Forces of Pancho Villa Arrive in the Vicinity of Mexico City._ Was it too much to keep Mexico under control? Though he was wealthy, and comfortable, he was living with the stress of the working class rising up against him, and extensively Huerta. Sure, Huerta had murdered Madero, but then again, Madero had been a weak candidate.

* * *

In the cargo carriage, the men tried to rest as a chicken screamed incessantly; Juan had been trying to sleep off the deep and heavy depression he had felt over the past day. Tired of the fuss the chicken was making, John ambled over and stroked its back gently. Taking the hat off his face, Juan glanced over. The damn thing wouldn't shut up, so John snapped its neck. It wasn't doing anything wrong, it's just that he and Juan only wanted some peace and quiet, especially from everything that happened over the past day.

But it wasn't going to last, as a truck rolled onto the tracks, forcing the train to stop. Juan and John shook, rattled and rolled with the crates and cages, struggling to hold themselves steady. Jaime tumbled out of his bed.

Once more, it was chaos. Soldiers fired upon revolutionary bandits as they swarmed around the train. Once again, it was war.

Quickly, Jaime grabbed his pistol and hastened to the window. Feeling himself cornered on all sides, he grabbed a small black clutch bag and made a run for it.

Meanwhile, Juan, who had been looking through the window, heard frantic thumping on the carriage door. He turned to John as though asking what to do next. John motioned for him to wait patiently as he heard footsteps approaching the carriage.

As John unhooked the latch, Governor Jaime stumbled in. Juan eyed the Governor with absolute hatred. Jaime had only contempt for the peasant standing in his way, and desperate cowardice.

"Get out of the way!", said Jaime desperately. He drew his pistol, but John beat him down and disarmed him. Now John was holding the gun at the Governor.

"What do you want from me?", said Jaime, clutching his small black bag. "You scum!"

Not the right thing to say from someone who had your own gun to you.

"Let me by." Jaime was sweating profusely as John kept the pistol to his face.

John scowled at the Governor. Then he glanced over at Juan, and, twirling the pistol, he tossed it into the bandit's hands.

Juan hesitated at the enormous responsibility of killing Governor Jaime. But he thought then of his father, and his six children, who were all dead, partly because of him.

Jaime watched with terror at the pistol in Juan's hand, as the man slowly drew it. But he had to think fast or he'd die at the hands of this mere lowlife.

Slowly, Jaime approached Miranda, and nervously opened the bag to reveal to him what was inside it.

"It's yours", he quavered, glancing quickly behind him to make sure John wasn't making any move. "There's a fortune inside. Money, jewels, pearls".

Juan glared at the Governor in silent fury.

Jaime gingerly placed the bag on one of the crates, then backed away as Juan slowly but angrily advanced on him, pistol in hand. Juan dragged the bag towards him, glancing at it.

It had looked to Jaime like his bribe was working. He quickly dove for cover by the crates and cages on the other side of the carriage.

It seemed for a moment like Juan wasn't looking as he drew his pistol away from the Governor as he inspected the money and jewels.

But Jaime had attempted to open the carriage door, and Juan shot him in the back at almost lightning speed before he could escape.

Juan drew a huge sigh, and looked at his hand, which was almost trembling. He gave a half-smile at John, then wiped the hand on his clothes, as though washing some sort of invisible blood off of it.

Shutting the carriage door, John peered out through the blinds. The war was still waging, whether Jaime was dead or not. This is what "revolution confusion" truly was.

"Well, this may not be going to America", drawled John.

"Maybe the train won't", said Juan, inspecting a diamond necklace, "But we will. Hey, which way is America?"

"Well, it's sure as hell not that way," said John. "That's the way."

For the first time in days, Juan smiled. "Well then... let's go."

The two men laughed together. John opened another door and Juan leapt out...

... straight into the welcoming arms of hundreds of grateful peasants.


	9. Chapter 9 - John's Endorsement

"Even Pancho Villa's heard of you", said a revolutionary leader, downing a glass. "He's always saying, I want to meet this Miranda."

Juan, who was sitting among a crowd at a dining table, in one of the wealthier carriages on the train, looked up at the men around him. John was reclining, half-asleep, across a bed on the other end of the carriage.

"Me?", said Juan with a mouth full of food. He would have been honoured with the prospect of meeting the great Pancho Villa... back when Villa was still just a bandit chief, before this whole bloody revolution happened.

"That's right", chuckled the leader. He was a full-bearded man, who wore a scruffy jacket and a necktie, and had a cigar in his mouth. "The military Junta commander told us everything you've done."

"Whatever it was you've heard", said a familiar voice from the other end of the carriage, "I can assure you they were only words".

Slowly, John opened his eyes, as Dr. Villega came in through the door.

"But words aren't enough to describe what Juan has done and suffered for the cause," Villega went on. Oh, Juan had suffered, all right.

Juan greeted the doctor with open arms, warmly embracing him.

"Hey, Doctor, hey! How've you been, ah? Now this is the man who should talk to Villa," Juan said enthusiastically to the crowd. He would never learn what really happened.

Excitedly, he patted John, who glared up at Villega like some sort of vengeful cat.

Villega held out his hand to John for him to shake. "John...", he said gratefully, not knowing yet that John had learned of his betrayal.

"Doctor...", said John, taking his hand. "We thought we'd lost ye, Doctor."

The train screeched to a halt again. The revolutionaries went to the windows to investigate.

"Listen", whispered Juan loudly to John, "Gunther Reza is after me, and now Villa wants to talk to me. I think we should get out of here." It seemed like cowardice, but Juan wanted no more violence, no more suffering. He just wanted to go back to being an ignorant _bandido_ again, even if he was alone this time. Alone except for John, anyway.

"Oh, Jesus, Juan, you can't leave now," said John, standing up from the bed. "You're a grand, glorious hero of the revolution."

"Eh, can I tell you something?" asked Juan.

"What?"

 _"Fuck you"_ , said Juan softly.

* * *

The revolutionary leader received a note from one of his friends in one of the other carriages, and read it, a concerned look on his face.

"A military train carrying 1,000 soldiers and heavy weapons is heading towards us.", said the leader, holding the notice in his hand.

"What about Villa's troops?", said Villega.

"He met resistance in the sierra, and asks us to hold out for twenty-four hours", the leader informed him.

Puffing on his cigar, he spread a map out on a bed. Juan, John and Villega all stood around him, observing it.

"Where the hell are we?", inquired John.

"Approximately here", said the revolutionary leader, pointing to their place on the map.

"Ah, it's a beautiful desert there", said John. "Not a stream, canyon or anything in a hundred miles."

"How long do you think it'd take them to get here?", said Juan, who sat himself down on one of the chairs.

"Three hours, more or less", replied the leader.

"Three hours...", repeated John, peering out the window at the fields and deserts ahead, puffing on his own cigar. He could see several walls, extending out beyond the train, which would make good defense lines for an ambush, almost like trenches. "Well," he decided, tossing the cigar out the window, "Looks as though we'll have to stop them right here, doesn't it?"

"All it takes is unbolting a couple of yards of track", said the revolutionary leader, folding up the map. "But then what? They'd still slaughter us."

"Ah, well", said John confidently. "There's more than one way to stop a train."

"How much dynamite have we?", asked Villega.

"Maybe two hundred pounds", said the leader.

"Is that enough for you?", Villega asked John. Despite everything Villega had done, he'd had faith in John's explosives expertise, just like everyone else.

"Oh, yes, it'll have to do all right", John replied, almost distractedly. "We'll also need a locomotive and a man."

 _"Si, si, si, si, okay"_ , Juan interrupted, getting up to volunteer.

"Someone who's brave and loyal to the cause..." John continued. This chicken thief wasn't going to be the one. Mind you, John's ideal choice was no saint himself.

"Never mind about that. Just tell me what I have to do", insisted Juan.

"Someone like Dr. Villega, I think". Yes, you guessed it.

Dr. Villega looked nervously around the carriage. "I-I-I-I... I'm honoured."

"I don't doubt it, Doctor", said John, handing the note to Villega, as though he were interrogating the doctor. "Also because an old friend of ours is in command of that train. A Colonel Gunther Reza".

* * *

As his train whistled through the night, Col. Reza brushed his teeth with much more menace than was necessary.

* * *

John and Villega shovelled coal into the fires of their own train.

"Let's get shovelling, man! Come on, put your back into it, Villega", ordered John.

Villega had been the one doing most of the shovelling, and he glared at John as he did so. He finally threw down his shovel.

"Let's stop pretending, Mallory", said Villega. "You know everything. You sensed it. Or guessed it."

"Simpler than that, Villega", said John, proudly. "I saw ya. That night in the rain." John was the toughest of the bunch, but he wasn't psychic.

Villega looked guilty. "I see. You have already judged and condemned me. That's why you've brought me with you. To kill me. It's easy to judge." He continued to talk as John picked up the shovel and began to shovel more coal into the fire. "Have you ever been tortured? Are you sure you wouldn't talk? I was sure. And yet I talked. Some men died because of me. What should I do, kill myself? Why? The dead remain dead. But me, I have not changed. I still believe in the same things. I can continue to serve the cause-"

 _"Shut up, Villega!"_ , snapped John. _"Shut up, for Christ's sake!"_

* * *

The night that John had killed Sean, he was too filled with rage to forgive his friend for betraying him. As far as he knew, the man didn't belong to the cause anymore.

Yet he remembered the relief Sean felt for John gunning down the soldiers and policemen, and then his look of shock as John shot him through the head. He never really wanted to do it. Yet for the good of the cause, for the good of the revolution, he had to dispatch a traitor.

* * *

"When I started usin' dynamite", said John, "I believed in many things. _All of it_. Finally, I believed only in dynamite. I don't judge you, Villega. I only did that once in my life. Get shovelin'", he sneered as he shoved the doctor forward and sauntered over behind him.

It seemed about enough coal. He pulled a lever, and off the train went, into the night.


	10. Chapter 10- Madness- Madness Madness!

The locomotive sped along the tracks. It felt much lighter without its carriages. But of course a mere collision course wasn't enough. So, looking ahead to make sure the time and distance were just right, and taking the gas lamp, John lit the dynamite, which would go off in about a minute or so. Just enough time to put on their coats and jump before the trains would collide and explode.

"The end of the line, Villega," drawled John. "I can't help you now." He casually put on his coat, as Villega watched him, defeated and despairing. "Just close your eyes and jump," said John, helpfully.

Villega didn't have to jump. He could save himself if he wanted to. But, close to tears, he just stood there. After all he'd done there was no way in hell he could have jumped.

 _"For Christ's sake, save yourself!"_ , cried John as he got ready to jump.

There wasn't any time left. John leapt off the side of a locomotive, rolled down the side of the tracks, and quickly picked himself up, hoping to watch Dr. Villega jumping off the train and saving himself at the last second.

The driver of the other train saw only too late the locomotive speeding in the opposite direction. _"Dios mio!_ _",_ he exclaimed. Desperately, the engineers tried to slam the brakes.

On the speeding locomotive, looking blankly out at the train carrying the thousand passengers, Dr. Villega closed his eyes, and braced himself for death.

The trains crashed, and burned, and burst into flames. Pieces of timber went flying. The explosions kicked up dirt everywhere. The remaining carriages screeched to a halt.

Revolutionaries were hiding behind the walls, opening fire at the surviving soldiers who clambered out of their carriages.

Cannons whistled and howled. Gatling guns rattled. The night was lit with blazing fires. Explosions still blew the already damaged train to more pieces.

Once again, Reza had survived the wreckage. Quietly, he snuck out behind the train, only jumping when another explosion went off.

Also hiding in the shadows was John. So quiet and careful was he, that Juan, who was firing his own machine gun, nearly mistook him for the enemy. Wordlessly, John motioned for Juan not to shoot.

He smiled with relief. John smiled back. Juan gave John a cheerful thumbs up, even as the battle was raging around them.

The revolutionaries advanced forward, and, stealthily, as did Juan and John.

John hid behind a burning car. He moved into the light to see if there was anyone. Then, as he walked back, a gunshot was heard, and he suddenly bent back over, gritting his teeth in pain. He cursed between his teeth as Col. Reza shot him again and again.

Juan stared in shock and disbelief. Then, with tremendous rage, he opened fire on Reza.

Reza ducked and dodged, as Juan shot at him, almost ceaselessly. The colonel seemed very hard to kill. But Juan's fury was stronger and finally, Reza's body rolled off a ledge, deader than dead.

Groaning and seething, John was still mortally wounded. Juan quickly rushed to his side. He grabbed John, and hauled him behind the burning care, before slumping down, exhausted, by the Irishman.

"Hey..." he whispered, desperately, "Remember what you told me? You told me about America. And the banks... and the gold... like you told me on the train, remember?" This was a promise. A promise that Juan wished would never be broken. "Hey... hey..." Juan forced a smile as he tried to stop John from fading away, tried to keep him awake for as long as he could. "Hey, no, no, no, you son of a bitch. Come on, you son of a bitch. You told me that. And you leave me now? What the fuck is gonna happen to me, ah?" Try as he might, Juan couldn't hide the sadness in his eyes.

Call it partnership, or brotherly love. Call it bromance, even. A promise was a promise.

"They'll make ya a general", said John softly.

"Ah, shit, I don't wanna be a general", said Juan, still forcing a laugh. Pancho Villa could be a goddamn general all he liked, but not him. Not Juan Miranda. He was just not cut out for it...

John started to close his eyes. No, no, no, this can't happen now.

"Come on... talk to me... Talk- keep talking. Talk! Talk to me about Villega. Villega! Remember Villega?"

How could John have not remembered Villega already.

"Vi-llega...", moaned John.

"Si!", said Juan.

"He died. He died a great, grand and glorious... hero of the revolution", muttered John. Then he laughed again, baring those rows of pearly white teeth, almost triumphantly. It had been Villega's penalty, and his chance to redeem himself.

"Okay... easy, easy...", murmured back Juan, setting down the dying John, "I'll go. I'll get help, ah?"

Warily, Juan looked around and started to sneak away to find help.

"General", came John's voice from behind him.

General Miranda looked back at him, a little surprised.

"Have ye a light?", said John, with a cigarette in his mouth.

One last smoke, ah? Well, Juan couldn't argue with that. "Si", he said, affirmatively. He got out his lighter, and lit John's cigarette.

That was when John lifted his hand to reveal...

Juan's crucifix, wrapped around his finger.

Slowly, Juan took it, looking in astonishment at John.

"Oh, my friend", said John, "I just gave ye a royal screwing."

Juan looked like he was about to cry. Sadly, he shook his head.

"I'll go get the help", he whispered. If there was any helping John anymore. As Juan scurried away, John puffed on his cigarette, and smiled wistfully, acknowledging what a good friend Juan truly was, and remembering the times with Nolan and the girl.

* * *

Their names had both been Sean. It was just that "John" was anglicised so foreign entities could pronounce or spell it better. He, Nolan, and the girl, Coleen, used to frolic through the fields. He remembered one time they stopped by a tree. Mallory and Coleen kissed passionately. She enjoyed it as far as she could tell. He hadn't noticed that Nolan was bothering them.

As Mallory slowly followed Coleen's gaze as she looked past him, she kissed Nolan, perhaps even more passionately than with Mallory.

Well, it seemed she favoured one Sean over another.

Mallory's smile, his big, toothy grin, began to fade.

* * *

Juan sensed something was wrong. He turned around to face the dying Mallory as he was going to get help.

" **JOHN!-** " he screamed, just as the train car exploded.

Juan watched in despair as the red smoke curled and folded over the train car, darkening and fading away into the night sky. Sean Mallory had died before he could be saved. He himself was the true grand, and glorious hero of the revolution. And people certainly would have had to rewrite maps when he went.

Juan stood there, in silence. Why did this have to happen to him? Why did John have to leave him?

 _What about me?_

THE END


End file.
